


After the Shattering Storm

by leaveanote



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kissing in the Rain, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Passion, Rimming, Romance, Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: Picking up right after "to the world," Crowley still hasn't gotten over the grief of thinking he's lost Aziraphale, of "it's over." He finally needs to ask -- who am I to you? It's time for Aziraphale to figure out what he wants, and answer.Dramatic kisses in the rain, the truth emerging between them, first time sex, and intimate, ineffable fluff.





	After the Shattering Storm

“To the world.”

They sip from their glasses, beaming at each other, the unmistakable, albeit surprising triumph they’ve shared painting the entirety of the evening in a swath of rosy light.

Still, there’s a darkly nagging thing in the back of Crowley’s mind. He’s trying to do one of his favorite things to do, which is not think about it, but he’s annoyed it’s there at all, marring the otherwise lovely dinner.

“Do you know,” Aziraphale says, leaning in, his eyes alight, “they are supposed to have the most delicious Eton Messes here?”

“Is that so?” Crowley says. “You know, I’ve never tried one.” He truly hasn’t, but he would’ve been tempted to pretend if he had, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s never lied to Aziraphale, if only to see the sheer delight on his face at the prospect.

“Oh, well, we simply must do then!” Aziraphale exclaims, patting the table for emphasis, and when Crowley inclines his head indulgently, he turns to a passing waiter.

Aziraphale chatters on about the different kinds of meringue, which ones he prefers best and how there’s nothing quite as dreadful as a miswhipped meringue. Crowley listens attentively as always, honestly fascinated, but the nagging thing still hasn’t left him. He’s beginning to worry Aziraphale might notice, though the fool hardly ever seems to realize precisely what it is Crowley is thinking.

 _I don’t even like you…_ He knows it must be ridiculous, they’ve literally been to hell and back since then, but still.

Something inside Crowley fractured that day. Something specific, something fragile, perhaps, though Crowley didn’t want to admit it, the most fragile part of him. He didn’t realize exactly how fragile it was, until it broke.

“Though really, the gem of it is really the strawberries, you know, a perfect meringue really can’t mask when the strawberries have gone off, but I -- ah, here we go!” The waiter places a silver dish full of meringue and cream and what thankfully appears to be plump, fresh strawberries in front of them, with two spoons. “Do you mind if I --?”

“By all means,” Crowley raises his eyebrows. He smiles despite himself at the look on Aziraphale’s face when he tastes his carefully assembled spoonful. The angel’s eyes drift closed, he sits up straighter, and the corners of his mouth curve up into wholly satisfied smile -- with just a bit of cream clinging to his lips.

“What’s the verdict, angel? Is it to your standards?” Crowley asks, though he knows the answer. He watches, fist clenched and aching, as Aziraphale lets his tongue flick out to lick the cream away.

“Absolutely marvelous,” Aziraphale asserts. “They got it exactly right!”

“I should hope so, it’s the Ritz.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport, it’s not like we’re paying for it with our hard earned money or anything.”

Crowley stares at him through his glasses.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, as he carefully scoops all the components onto his spoon. He holds it up, and Crowley raises his eyebrow again. The angel’s brought him to quite a few restaurants, some of which he’s actually eaten at, but this...this is a first. Aziraphale’s looking at him earnestly -- “quick, come on, before it gets all melty!” -- and Crowley’s clenching his fist even tighter. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, come _on_ , what on earth is he supposed to think? He parts his lips, willing his face not to go visibly red as Aziraphale leans in and slips the cream-covered spoon inside.

It’s actually quite delicious, and Crowley says as much, but he’s too busy trying not to listen to the crashing war inside his head to say it as suave or casually as he would’ve liked.

_I don’t even like you. I don’t even like you. We’re not friends! I don’t even like you._

And yet here they sit. One could argue that stopping the apocalypse can bring people together, but they certainly survived a great deal more than that before, and Aziraphale still said it.

Too late, Crowley realizes he’s gone noticeably quiet. Aziraphale’s face has fallen.

“You don’t like it, do you,” says the angel. “I suppose it is quite sweet, but I -- well, no matter. Perhaps we can get you a -- ”

“It’s not the dessert,” Crowley says, before he catches himself. He blinks quite quickly, grateful Aziraphale can’t see him through the glasses. “I mean, the dessert is terribly good and all,” and he takes another spoonful to prove it. “I’m sorry. I suppose...I’m sorry. Don’t mean to ruin your, um. Mess.” And he really, really doesn’t, and he feels a pang of hatred towards himself for spoiling what should have been an exclusively celebratory evening.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is hesitant.

Crowley huffs a breath out through his nose and swallows hard.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale reaches out and places his palm on top of Crowley’s fist. Crowley lets himself revel in it for a moment too long, the soft, warm hand, the gentle touch, the pulsing waves of love he’s not supposed to be able to feel anymore but he does, he always does when it’s Aziraphale. Maybe it’s not even a leftover-from-being-an-angel thing, maybe it’s just Aziraphale. He thought he knew what it meant, once, and he was content to let that be all they ever had. But —

_I don’t even like you!_

Crowley pulls his hand away, heart hammering at Aziraphale’s confused, hurt expression.

Aziraphale calls a waiter over for the check, the remainder of the Eton Mess melting sadly in its bowl.

Crowley’s already halfway to the door before Aziraphale catches up. He thinks about just stalking away, shouting, telling the angel not to follow, but when they end up outside the Ritz, in the beginnings of a storm, he lets Aziraphale take his arm, instead.

“Crowley,” he says again. Raindrops are dotting his precious jacket and Crowley notices he doesn’t even make a move to protect it.

“Sorry I ruined your dessert.” It comes out so much more like a slap than Crowley means it to, and Aziraphale looks taken aback.

“What’s going on?” Crowley takes a shuddering breath. The rain feels good on his cheeks, soaking into his hair.

“So are we still _not friends,_ then?”

Aziraphale flinches. It’s clear he knows what Crowley’s referring to, and he wasn’t expecting this.

“I dismissed it,” Crowley goes on. He starts walking, aimlessly, just to do something with his body, and Aziraphale follows. “I thought you’d say anything to get me to leave you alone and stop talking about revolution, but...” He stops, spins, rivulets of rain running down his face. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” The words stick in his throat. “Did you mean it, Aziraphale? I’m not — I’m not just a means to an end for you, am I?”

“How can you me ask that?” Aziraphale’s voice is almost a whisper.

“Well, then tell me!” Crowley exclaims, extending his palms. “What am I to you? I thought we were friends, and then you said it was over, it was _over_ , and when I lost you — I — “ Crowley’s breath is coming quickly now, which only happens when he is terribly distressed and forgets he doesn’t need to do it, but he can’t focus on any of that now, not with Aziraphale coming closer to him in the rain. He’s dimly aware that no one’s paying them any attention, which is not one of the smaller miracles. Aziraphale’s face is set and serious, but Crowley sees his lip tremble.

“I don’t know!” Aziraphale cries out desperately, and Crowley feels his whole body flinch. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. There’s never been anything like this before. But — you have to understand, I thought I was doing the right thing!”

Somewhere nearby, thunder crashes. The next words come out of Crowley reluctant but clear.

“You have no idea how much that hurt me.”

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open, Crowley watches rain drip into it.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he entreats, but Crowley finds it’s not enough.

“I need a real answer here, angel.” He says this softly, but his voice is shaking, building. “When I lost you. I — I wasn’t myself anymore. It was an absence I couldn’t bear, had never truly confronted, I always thought I could protect you, that — we were protecting each other — and when I lost you. When I lost you.” He knows his face is a wreck, his hair damply flattened to his head, all pretense washed away. “I can still feel the fire sometimes, do you know that? I dream about it, angel.” Aziraphale’s mouth has fallen open. “I would’ve fought all of Heaven to protect you, I know you know it, and I thought — I thought it was too late. I’ve always, _always_ been able to find you, and they took you away! What I became when I thought you were gone...it frightened me. It was a chasm greater than I ever thought I could become.” Something about the storm gives him permission to finally say these words, the magnitude of it granting him access to the parts of himself he's been fighting to bury, even though they’ve felt like they’re going to erupt out of him at any moment. “I couldn’t do it, Aziraphale, I didn’t want to! I can’t — I need to know what I am to you. I can’t go on keeping this unspoken when losing you nearly destroyed me!” His voice has raised to a roar, nearly as loud as the shattering of the rain. “Because you told me it was over. And it — it doesn’t feel over!” He glances about helplessly before his eyes land again on the angel. “Sometimes it feels like we’ve barely begun.” This sentence comes quiet, he can hardly hear it over the storm, but Aziraphale seems to. He takes a step closer.

“It’s not over,” he says, quietly but clearly, and from somewhere deep in the recesses of his chest, Crowley’s heart soars.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Crowley says again. He can’t stop now. A flash of lightning illuminates Aziraphale’s expression, which is unusually unreadable. Crowley removes his soaked glasses and stares straight into the angel’s eyes. “Only running into you whenever I can, rescuing you or asking for help. I want — “ but he can’t go on, not without Aziraphale meeting him partway. He sees the angel swallow, hard. He feels something coming off of him, but he can’t quite name it.

Aziraphale steps closer. Thunder erupts along the streets of the city, the wind flings rain at them from every angle, and within the crash and flood and flare, Aziraphale reaches for his hand. Crowley opens his fist to take it. He feels as if he’s teetering on the edge of something as life-changing as Armageddon, with stakes just as high. In the next spike of lightning, Crowley sees the angel’s wings: a stormy grey, not too dissimilar from Crowley’s own. He doesn’t shield them with it, not this time. He chooses to let them experience this storm, together.

“I’m on our side,” Aziraphale says softly. “I swear it,” he says, and he never swears, and he says it without hesitation. “I swear it. I mean it. Always. Our own side. If you’ll still have me.”

Crowley blinks the damp from his eyes and gives a quick nod of assent, his mind buzzing blankly, terrified to hope, his heart thundering in his chest, and then there’s only inches between Aziraphale’s mouth and his own, and then there isn’t.

Everything seems to stop. The rain, his heart, the spinning of the earth, the chaos of the universe. Crowley registers dimly that this is supposed to be a cliche, but it doesn’t matter, it’s true, there is nothing else, everything else there ever was was leading him right here.

Aziraphale doesn’t let up, and Crowley gasps into it. This, what he never let himself want, not truly, because he couldn’t stand the ache of never getting it, it’s happening, it’s happening, oh God, this isn’t a dream, Aziraphale’s mouth fumbling against his own in the cold and rushing rain, and never has Crowley experienced anything that feels more like heaven.

And at last Crowley finds he can move again, and he seizes the angel’s face in both hands, cupping those beautiful soft cheeks, and Aziraphale’s arms are wrapped around his wet coat, pressing them together. He feels the angel’s tongue against his, feels Aziraphale moan into his mouth when he kisses harder, and he knows Aziraphale can feel his love, he’s dizzy from it himself and they’re lost in each other, drowning in it.

It should go without saying, but also Crowley needs to hear it and he fucking deserves to, and Aziraphale, finally, knows.

The angel pulls away, but only just, and Crowley can feel his warm breath on his cheek as he says, over and over and over the roar of the rain:

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

And Crowley feels it as Aziraphale gives into it, a release, a wave more powerful than the sea, and he can’t tell if he feels it because there’s want within it, if it’s because loving a demon is inherently sin, or if it’s because some part of Crowley hasn’t lost some of the magic of being an angel. It’s probably all three, and it nearly knocks him over, and Aziraphale too is nearly knocked over from the force of the growling, furious, pure nova of love that comes from Crowley, and they cling to each other to remain upright.

“I love you,” Aziraphale is still saying, penitent and finally free, and when Crowley stops his mantra at last, leans back into the kiss, he feels Aziraphale’s strong hands reach beneath his thighs and lift him. He gives a glorious moan and wraps his legs around the angel’s waist. He flings his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, threads his fingers into the angel’s hair, kisses him still more deeply even as the rain makes them slick and slippery, and Aziraphale holds him there, steady through it all, and sure.

When at last Aziraphale sets him down, he figures they’ll head to the bookshop, but the angel murmurs, close to his mouth, “can I come over?”

The implication sparks a shiver in Crowley he didn’t even know he had, but he also flinches for a far less exciting reason.

“Why my place?”

“Well, I’ve only been once, and I didn’t really have the chance to — take it in, you know, what with the end of the world and all — “

Crowley rubs the soaking wet hair on the back of his head.

“Yeah, all right...it’s...it’s not very tidy though, mind you, I didn’t expect you — well.” He gestures, smiling sheepishly.

“I should think not,” says Aziraphale softly, reaching to stroke his cheek. “Take me home, Crowley?”

And that, he can’t say no to. With one last growl and a firm kiss that promises more, Crowley takes his hand and they set off for his apartment.

***

The moment they walk in the door the quiet hits them with a force. The fantastical sounds of the storm are shut away, and there is only the two of them, the demon and the angel, dripping wet and shivering.

Crowley feels an overwhelming urge to miracle everything tidy, to make the bed and get the bottles off the floor, but then Aziraphale turns to him again, eyes blazing.

“Not done with that kiss then, were we?” A corner of Crowley’s mouth is turned up in a smile. It’s far less cinematically romantic here in his apartment, but also so, so much more intimately so.

“Will we ever be?” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley moans in response.

“I hope not,” he says, and Aziraphale kisses him harder.

Presently, though, the discomfort from their sopping clothes dims their fervor.

“I could — “ Aziraphale offers, but Crowley shakes his head.

“Rather not draw anyone’s attention here, you know? Not that it really matters...but...”

He removes his soggy coat and reaches for the angel’s.

“Gonna put these in the bathtub.” He dumps the heavy wet clothes into the tub — then thinks better of it, tugs the towel off the rod, and hangs Aziraphale’s blazer neatly on it, cheeks pink as he does it, spreading out the shoulders so they don’t crease.

“Thank you.”

Crowley’s got the towel over his arm, it’s thankfully dry and clean even though he’s been taking a lot of long, mopey baths recently. He turns to Aziraphale, who’s appeared in the bathroom doorway in soggy sock feet, and can’t help but give a soft smile.

“We ought to get all of these off,” he says, and feels his face grow hotter, but Aziraphale only nods and goes to remove his vest and shirt. Crowley turns away, pulls his own tank top off and his trousers down, and when he’s in nothing but briefs, he feels Aziraphale shift next to him, hanging his clothes on the shower rod. He turns to the angel and almost melts right there, in nothing but his own briefs Aziraphale is so, so beautiful, all soft and pink curves and fuzzy arms and pudgy belly, and he loves him so much the angel actually blushes at it.

“I almost wish I could make it less obvious,” he grumbles.

“Don’t,” says Aziraphale, “not anymore.” Crowley smiles at him. It feels natural, then, to wrap the towel around Aziraphale like he’s just gotten out of a pool. Crowley ruffles the angel’s wet hair and pats the remaining drips of rain before wrapping him in it tightly and pulling him close, burrowing his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He inhales deeply.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he says. He feels terribly vulnerable and exposed, he’s overjoyed but it’s all happening so fast — it’s not, really, but it feels like it is.

Aziraphale pulls back and takes the towel from his hands. He dries Crowley’s hair with it, his cheeks, and then it’s Crowley’s turn to be wrapped up in it. The angel very gently kisses his forehead, then his nose, then his mouth, and then it’s not gentle anymore. The towel falls to the floor as Aziraphale pushes their bodies together, and Crowley smirks into it as he feels the angel’s growing desire. Both because it’s the sin of lust, and because, well. It is pushing up against his thigh.

“You went with a cock, huh?” Crowley murmurs, and he takes the angel’s bottom lip gently between his teeth.

“M-mostly,” Aziraphale manages, though it’s almost lost in his breathlessness. “I do like having a vagina sometimes, it pushes far less against my clothes, you know.”

“I do.”

“And sometimes I — well, I like to have both.” Aziraphale has one hand cupping the back of Crowley’s throat, the other at his waist, pulling them together. “I know everyone else of our kind would be horrified I even bother at all, but — I like...feeling a bit human...sometimes. Living like them.”

“I know you do, angel. Otherwise you wouldn’t like kissing, and I take it you do.” Crowley runs his fingers through the angel’s soft hair. “And I, honestly, feel pretty much exactly the same way.” He slips his thigh around one of the angel’s so Aziraphale can’t mistake what he means, and feels a hungry thrill run through him when Aziraphale pushes up against it.

“We can take it slow,” Aziraphale says, and it’s his turn to blush, Crowley can feel him growing harder by the moment and he’s only tightened his grip.

“We’ve taken it slow for six thousand years, angel. I want you.”

He wraps his arm around the angel’s waist, cradles Aziraphale’s head in his palm, and dips him, kissing him hard and deep and exactly how he’s wanted to for millennia.

Aziraphale lets out a soft sound of shock before flinging both his arms around Crowley’s neck, and in the next moment, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Crowley’s reached under the angel’s knees and carries him, still kissing him, into the bedroom. He manages to stumble over only one item of furniture (that chair will pay for it later), and Aziraphale smiles into his mouth but doesn’t break the kiss.

When he lays the angel down upon his bed, he swallows, hard. This isn’t something he can mess up, and he’s tired of letting anything go unsaid between them.

“What is it?” Aziraphale looks up at him, those beautiful, kind eyes glazed with lust, and Crowley gulps, but he has to say it.

“I don’t want you to think this is all I want. I — I haven’t even done this before.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

“You haven’t?”

“No! I — what am I going to do, fuck a human? That hardly seems ethical, not to mention I’m not even positive it’s safe for them — “ Crowley realizes Aziraphale is smiling, and he knows he doesn’t sound very demonic. But whatever, he’s a demon, not a monster. And then something occurs to him, something he’s never thought of. “...Have you?”

“No,” Aziraphale says definitively, “but I thought you might’ve — never mind,” he trails off.

Crowley shrugs, and says truthfully: “There’s never been anyone else.”

Aziraphale beams up at him. “You didn’t need to look so relieved, you know,” he says.

Crowley shakes his head.

“It’s not that I’d be jealous of a human,” although he would be a bit, but he’d get over it, he knows this is something else. “It’s that...well, I’m glad that if we’re doing this, we’re figuring it out for the first time together.”

Aziraphale’s smile widens.

“Come here,” he murmurs, and Crowley lets himself be pulled into a kiss, crawls on top of the angel’s lap and puts one hand on either side of his head. “I know this isn’t all you want, Crowley,” the angel murmurs in his ear. “I — I don’t want to hold back anymore, all right?” He pushes on Crowley’s shoulders, pulling back enough to look into Crowley’s eyes, yellow and dilated and unhidden. “It’s us. It’s always been us. You’ve always been here — and I’ve — I’m sorry.” And Crowley knows he means it, he’s so tired of waiting and he finally doesn’t have to anymore. He’s nearly delirious from it, and then Aziraphale brushes their mouths together, pulls him close again, and says, earnest and certain, “I want to spend the rest of the time we have together. I want to give you everything you want. Everything I’ve always wanted to give.” And before Crowley can even process the depth of this, Aziraphale places one, very small, very specific kiss, on his temple, directly on the demon marking that signifies him as a snake. “I love you,” the angel whispers in his ear. “All of you.”

Aziraphale gently pushes the dazed demon off him and rolls them over, lying Crowley onto the bed. He kisses him slow, angel-soft lips drawing his thin ones open. They’re only in briefs, and Crowley’s never felt so constrained in his before. Aziraphale reaches down to grab between his legs and Crowley squirms, gasping, pushing up against him. The way the angel moves his hand, so sure and steady, Crowley can’t help but smirk, even as he’s clinging to the pillowcase it feels so good.

“You’ve touched yourself, haven’t you?” he asks, his voice heavy with want. Aziraphale swallows, gives a sheepish smile.

“A -- a few times.”

“Me too,” Crowley assures him, and he can’t bring himself to quite say _imagining exactly this_ , but Aziraphale understands it anyway and kisses him again, hungry and hot. The angel moans as Crowley gets harder in his hands, precome dampening the one article of clothing the rain hadn’t, until he asks:

“Can I…?”

“If you will, too.”

Aziraphale smiles, nervous but positively shimmering with desire, and he pulls off first his own briefs, and then Crowley’s. They gaze at each other, these strange, sweaty human forms that they’ve lived lifetimes in. Crowley is just getting accustomed to precisely how hard they both are, how hard the angel is for him, when Aziraphale shifts to kiss down his throat, his chest, his stomach, soft tongue tasting the sweat and salt and dried rain on his skin.

Crowley spreads his legs on instinct and the angel settles himself between them, clasping one of Crowley’s hands in his own. Panting, he looks up.

“Do you want me to -- can I take you into my mouth?”

Crowley’s breathing is coming heavy again, just the sensation of Aziraphale’s bare body between his legs is already dizzingly arousing, but those words, in Aziraphale’s soft voice...all he can do is nod, but he does that quite fervently, and then, with a positively obscene groan, the angel takes him deep into his throat and begins to move.

Crowley lets out a shuddering gasp, it feels so _fucking_ good, and the sheer joy that Aziraphale wants him this way -- the angel squeezes his hand as he bobs his head, grabbing the base of Crowley’s cock with the other. Crowley can feel Aziraphale experimenting, flicking his tongue over the head, pressing it against his shaft, reaching down to caress his balls and then press a saliva-slick finger, ever so gently, at his entrance. It’s nearly too much, he’s thrusting his hips up into the angel’s mouth, trying to stay in control, not too forceful, but Aziraphale can take it, invites him in deeper, his movements becoming all the more erratic.

“Come here,” Crowley manages, though it’s painfully difficult to ask Aziraphale to stop. The angel lifts his head to gaze at Crowley, his lips wet and swollen, and Crowley scoops him into a kiss. He pulls away long enough to lick his palm, and then on a whim, he slips two fingers into the angel’s mouth. Aziraphale hums around them, presses his hips into Crowley’s thigh, and sucks on his fingers, running his tongue over them until they’re slick. Crowley reaches down and takes hold of Aziraphale’s cock. The angel cries out, his knees on either side of Crowley’s waist, and he ruts against Crowley’s hand. Crowley finds he loves the heft of it in his hand, but he loves watching Aziraphale give in to the pleasure so much more. The angel’s eyes crinkle, he bites his lip, he gives short, bitten-off breaths and deliciously long moans, and Crowley can’t stop watching him, can’t stop kissing him, touching him.

“Hey,” Crowley says softly. He keeps up his pace, but he takes the angel’s chin in his hand and tilts it to him. “Do you want me to keep doing this? Cause I’m more than happy to. But…” His own neglected cock is throbbing, harder than ever with the weight of Aziraphale’s erection in his hand.

“What do you want?” Aziraphale says quickly. His voice is wonderfully throaty, and Crowley gives a low hum of arousal. 

“Would you want to fuck me, Aziraphale?”

The angel’s mouth falls open, and Crowley can feel his cock stiffen even more in his palm. He smirks. “I thought, maybe,” he says, but his voice is muffled from the feverish kisses Aziraphale is planting all over his face.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says suddenly.

“What?”

“Well -- if I’m to -- we’ll need, um. Lubricant, I’m fairly certain.”

Crowley bites his bottom lip -- and jerks his head to his bedside table.

“Top drawer,” he mutters.

Aziraphale stares at him, wide-eyed, but mercifully doesn’t say a word, only leans over (Crowley releases him, somewhat regretfully), and pulls out a half-empty tube.

“I think of you,” Crowley says simply, and Aziraphale gives another low moan of arousal.

“You have me,” he murmurs into Crowley’s mouth. “Here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I love you, angel,” Crowley says softly.

"I love you,” says Aziraphale, and then he bites his own lip. “I’d -- I’d like to -- before the lubricant. If you’ll let me.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows as Aziraphale slips back between his legs, parts his thighs, bends his head, and then the demon understands.

“If you’ll let me,” Aziraphale says again, his breath hot on Crowley’s skin, and Crowley nods, reaching again for Aziraphale’s hand.

“Please…” he sighs, “ _please_ …”

And then Aziraphale’s mouth is on him and the angel moans as he licks him eagerly, hungrily, and Crowley’s back arches, his legs spreading to grant deeper access, and Aziraphale takes it, letting go of his hand to grip the cheeks of Crowley’s ass and pull him into his mouth. Crowley grabs his cock and begins to stroke himself as Aziraphale fucks him with his tongue, opens him, tastes him, takes him in.

Just when Crowley starts to think surely he can come just like this, Aziraphale pulls away and Crowley’s left panting.

“Do you want me to -- shall I --?” Crowley gestures to Aziraphale’s own erection, which he can’t wait to taste, but the angel shakes his head, running his tongue around his lips in a way that almost could make Crowley come right then.

“Next time, love,” he says, and Crowley can tell that he is loving this, and he grins up at him.

“You want to fuck me now?”

Aziraphale opens the lubricant, pours it liberally into his hand. He gives his cock a few strokes before pressing two fingers to Crowley’s entrance.

“I want to fuck you now,” he murmurs, and slips his fingers inside.

It’s so much at once, a hint of pain but the angel’s tongue and touch have left him ready and wanting, and the pain quickly shifts into the most extraordinary kind of pressure. Aziraphale moves his fingers slowly, stretching him, pushing deeper.

“How is it?”

“I like it,” Crowley says softly, focusing on the sensation, “I’m ready. I’m ready, please…” He’s not used to begging Aziraphale, but he likes asking for this, because he knows he’s going to get it. Aziraphale slowly removes his fingers and positions himself. Crowley pulls his knees back obediently, but before Aziraphale shifts, he leans forward and kisses Crowley’s mouth again.

“I love you, darling. Whatever you want, all right?”

Crowley nods, it feels so good to be taken care of, to not have to be the one in control for once, to be here, together. Aziraphale presses a kiss to his snake tattoo again, and enters him.

“Oh!” Crowley feels himself opening, feels every inch sliding into him, the heft of it, and that’s his angel, that’s Aziraphale, inside of him.

“Fuck,” Aziraphale hisses. “Fuck, _fuck_ …”

Through the stretch of it, the pressure he squirms to adjust to, Crowley grins.

“Do I feel good, angel?”

“Are -- are you okay? Should I make myself smaller, would you prefer a different -- ?”

“You feel fucking amazing,” Crowley breathes. He runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, pushing his curls from his face. He rocks back and forth, getting used to it, and already the stretch is giving way into something truly extraordinary. “More than that -- you’re inside me, you’re here, I love it, I love you…” he swallows hard, lets his head rock back on the pillow, loves the feeling of the angel all over him. “Go slow. At first...I want to feel all of you, I don’t want to miss anything —"

and Aziraphale does, drawing himself almost all the way out before pushing slowly back in, until his thighs are hot against Crowley’s ass, he moves carefully, back and forth, letting it build, letting Crowley adjust.

“I feel — so full...” Crowley pants, writhing.

An angel and a demon, linked like this, by the flesh, in something so profoundly human. He can feel Aziraphale’s muscles strain from effort, he can feel his body stretching, he can feel the thousands of places their bodies touch, the angel so, so deep inside of him, the myriad creature they form together, of want and flesh and soul and body and touch and love and love and love.

“I love when you’re inside me,” all the words he would have bit back slip out of him, eased out by the thrumming pleasure of it, and Aziraphale kisses them from his mouth, “stay inside me, shift me, fill me —“

“I’m here, I’m here, you feel so good around me, fucking amazing, you're so beautiful, Crowley, and I’m here — I’m not leaving you, never, never again, I swear...”

And the ache of it has faded into something utterly intoxicating, Crowley has never felt so _present_ in his body, so aware of how good it can feel, and it’s Aziraphale who’s bringing him that, who’s giving that to him, and he looks up and the angel’s face is a contortion of unbridled sensation and Crowley knows he’s feeling exactly the same.

“Harder,” Crowley hisses.

“Are — are you sure?”

Crowley bears down on him, gritting his teeth, taking him as deep as he can.

“You -- ” Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley can tell he’s trying so hard not too move too fast, not to hurt him. He reaches with his free hand and grabs the angel’s hips, pulling him deeper.

“I like it, angel. I’ll tell you if it hurts, I promise.” Crowley tightens his grip on Aziraphale’s hair and hips, drawing him close. “ _Fuck me_.”

And the angel does, pushing Crowley’s knees back, driving into him with a cry. Crowley reaches back to press one hand against the headboard, bearing down as Aziraphale takes him, hard. The angel thrusts deep inside him, and Crowley gasps, again and again:

“Fill me up, stay with me, stay with me…”

And Aziraphale’s face is a thing of beauty, a fucked-out wreck of arousal and effort, his chest sweaty and his cheeks pink, and Crowley loves him so, so much.

Aziraphale bends to drag his teeth into Crowley’s ear, his shoulder, and the sharpness of it makes his back arch in the best way, and when he does Aziraphale hits a spot inside him that sends pleasure coursing through his body.

“ _There!_ ” he gasps out, “ _there, there_ , please don’t stop, right there…”

Aziraphale gives a low growl and obliges, fucking him hard, right there, into the bed, the bouncing bounding pressure of it building and building. Crowley shuts his eyes and grabs his cock, but Aziraphale’s hand pushes him away. The angel grips his thigh in one hand, angling himself down on that spot, and with the other he strokes Crowley hard and fast and tight.

“Look at me,” Aziraphale commands, and Crowley obeys, panting, gasping, and Aziraphale gives an impossibly dashing smile before biting his lip and thrusting even harder, and Crowley feels it approach. An arc of pleasure, burning through him, his chest heaving -- “ _Look at me_!” and he does, he stares at Aziraphale’s beautiful face as the angel fucks him and fucks him until he cries out, the pleasure blazing through him like the eruption of a star, and he can’t see Aziraphale anymore but he can feel him everywhere, his breath and his strong arms and his soft thighs, the whisper of wings and the blaze of a halo and him, deep inside, and Crowley can feel his pace pick up right past the crest of his own orgasm, hot and rough and filling him and his.

And then at last, the angel slows. Shifts and pulls out and plants a firm, tired kiss in the middle of Crowley’s cheek before curling up in the demon’s waiting arms.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale speaks his name so tentatively Crowley almost laughs. After all that. He wraps his arms around his angel and embraces him, twines their legs, and they’re sticky and damp and panting and together.

“That,” he says, “was amazing.”

Aziraphale beams, in relief and what is undeniably self-satisfaction, and Crowley kisses him.

“I thought so too,” the angel says. “And! I already have quite a few ideas for how we can try it next time. Um. If you’d like.”

Crowley does laugh at this, but only because he’s so gleefully, astonishingly, goddamn fucking happy.

“I can’t wait, angel,” he murmurs. He nuzzles his nose into Aziraphale’s hair, breathing deeply. He caresses the angel’s shoulder. He loves the way their thighs press together, that he can see Aziraphale’s hips. There’s something so obscene about hips, perhaps because if you can see them that means the rest of him is exposed, and Aziraphale’s are dimpled and so, so lovely.

“But for now,” Aziraphale continues, snuggling into Crowley’s arms, “I think I am actually going to get some sleep, if you can believe it.”

“I can believe it, angel.” He pulls back enough to trace the back of his hand down Aziraphale’s cheek. “You tired me out too.”

Aziraphale blushes, obviously pleased with himself.

“I liked making you come,” he says, his voice low. Crowley feels a frisson of arousal shiver through his tired body.

“I liked it when you made me come,” he replies, and Aziraphale burrows close into his chest.

“I’m going to do it again,” he says, after a moment, into Crowley’s chest.

Crowley smiles and squeezes him.

“In the morning, angel.” A thought occurs to him. “And then -- if the weather’s cleared up a bit -- shall we go get another Eton Mess? Finish it this time?”

He barely gets a glimpse of Aziraphale’s gleeful face before the angel is kissing him right into the pillow.

“I love you so much!” he says. And then again, more seriously. “So much. So, so much.”

"I love you, Aziraphale.”

The apocalypse didn’t happen. They’ve bought themselves time from Hell and Heaven. They are finally on the same side.

That night, for the first time in a very, very, very long time, Anthony J. Crowley goes to sleep looking forward to tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! <3 Hope you liked it! Check out my other fics -- I write both G-rated fluff and E-rated smut but you can bet both will have lots of kisses.
> 
> you can request fics & talk to me about ineffable kisses on tumblr at letmetemptyou <3


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